Undercurrent (14 page)

This is ridiculous. “What did you expect?” I protest. “I was only eight years old when I lit that fire—I didn’t even understand what was going on!”

“I’m not talking about the incident with the garage, Cal, and you know it. I’m talking about these past two years and your sessions with Dr. Morrison.”

“Doctor who?”

Instantly my mother is furious. “See what I mean? You’ve been seeing the woman for two years, and you still treat it like a big joke. Well, she’s very concerned about you. She thinks you blame yourself for what happened to Cole, and that you have been trying to be just like your brother ever since, to make up for what happened. And your father and I agree.”

I want to explain how I haven’t the slightest idea who this Dr. Morrison is—and that if there’s one person I have no interest in acting like, it’s Cole. Heck, where would I even start? But something tells me that interrupting my mother again is only going to bring on a complete meltdown.

“Do you even remember how much you used to hate sports?” she asks. “As a little boy, you hated them. You couldn’t catch a ball, wouldn’t even try. All that time you were so secretly talented. And we’re so proud of everything you’ve accomplished in the last few years. So proud.

“But you’re doing it for the wrong reasons, Cal. You should be doing it for yourself, not because you feel guilty about what happened to Cole. There was nothing you could do. Nothing. You know what your brother was like. He was fearless, a daredevil. He would have never listened to you.

“But all this other stuff—the violence, the drinking, the recklessness—it’s not making you more like your brother. It’s only hurting this family. And it has to stop. Otherwise you’re going to end up in jail.” My mother shudders. “Or worse . . .”

“Mom, seriously.”

“Because I can’t lose you, too, Cal!” she blurts out. “I just can’t!” Tears pour down her cheeks. Strangely they remind me of the falls, seemingly unstoppable, until she finally retrieves a tissue from her sweater sleeve and wipes them away.

“Mom, I didn’t try to kill myself,” I tell her in a low voice. “I swear I didn’t. I would never do that to you.”

But the rest of what she said hangs in the air between us—that I’m causing our family to suffer even more than we already have. Except I can’t remember this Dr. Morrison or anything else I did that was so bad. My mom’s worried I’ll end up in jail—or worse? It’s insane!

But then again there was a gun in my desk and a roll of money. Where they are now I have no idea. But there’s a crate of stolen whiskey in the closet, which I hid myself. And today I even hurt someone, possibly badly, just because he had a big mouth. And the truth is, it felt good.

Who am I?

“Eat your sandwich,” Mom reminds me. “It’s going cold.” She gets up and leaves the room without another word, closing the door behind her.

Soon after, I can hear her crying in her room.

CHAPTER 13

Dad has a meeting first thing Friday, so I get up early and offer
to make my own way to school. My parents agree. I’m glad, because I don’t think I could make small talk with Mom this morning or, worse, suffer a silent ride into town. Luckily it’s a sunny day but cool outside. As I cross the bridge, a sharp wind makes my ears ache. I keep my eyes focused ahead.

It’s a relief to reach the north side, to put the chasm behind me. Just then a flock of geese passes directly overhead, honking with delight as the geese continue their epic journey south.

If I had wings, I’d seriously consider joining them.

I should talk to Bryce today, I decide once the geese finally disappear behind the trees. As a normally gentle guy, he would need a pretty good reason to attack anyone, never mind his once best friend. And whatever that reason was, it would probably go a long way toward explaining what’s been going on around here lately.

So, bad blood or not, I should at least try to get a few answers from him. I start thinking about an opener that might break the ice between a would-be victim and his almost-killer:

“Hey, buddy, whatcha been up to?”

Wrong.

“Hi, Bryce. I get the feeling you’re mad at me.”

Wrong.

“Yo, bro, about the whole pillow thing . . .”

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I have yet to come up with anything better when the school comes into sight. Hearing the first bell, I realize I’m running late and have to jog the last block. My legs are feeling better, at least. The human body is an amazing machine, I have to admit, automatically repairing itself without any instructions or assistance. Unless it’s really broken, that is. Unless things are really hopeless.

On that topic I’ve come to the conclusion that my brain is either permanently busted or totally fine. Either way, the world is not going back to how it was. So there’s no point in worrying my parents or, worse, getting doctors involved. No, definitely no doctors. I keep getting horrible flashes of what brain surgery would be like: having my scalp peeled back and the top of my skull sawn off like a jack-o’-lantern; then a surgeon poking around the mess inside with sharp instruments.
Did you feel that? What do you see? What do you smell?
Er, no thank you. Until I start seeing fairies and unicorns, I’m going to pass.

Arriving at school, I don’t run into Bryce, but it’s not like we’d have time to talk anyway. I quickly get my books for my first class and hurry to beat the second bell. I make it just in time. As I collapse into my seat, Ms. Lewis is already taking attendance.

“Bryce?”

There’s no response. I look around for him; he’s not in the room.

“Bryce Trimble,” Ms. Lewis calls again, without looking up.

“He’s probably home sick,” a student chimes in.

“Yeah, he threw up in history class yesterday.”

“Ewww . . .”

There’s some snickering before Ms. Lewis orders the class to settle down. I understand now: Bryce must have gone home with a migraine. He gets a lot of them, and they’re brutal and come on suddenly. But that’s the first time he’s spewed in class, as far as I know.

Anyway, after a night of excruciating pain and nausea, Bryce will be wrecked, so his mother usually keeps him home the next day. Which means I’m screwed until Monday—unless I want to call him tonight. But something tells me that’s a bad idea and that he’ll just hang up on me. Then he’ll have a whole weekend to work himself into a panic over it. No, it’s better to talk to Bryce face-to-face—let him see in person that I mean him no harm.

I don’t want to speak to anyone at break, so I duck into the boys’ washroom and hide out in a stall. It’s not the most dignified thing I’ve ever done in my life, perching on a toilet seat, but at least no one will bother me here.

As usual, half of the lights are out. Sitting in the gloomy cubicle, I start yawning uncontrollably. With no friends and a bunch of people to avoid, it’s going to be another long day, I know. And there’s no gym today, which means no nap in the library.

I decide I’d better get moving. I exit the stall and splash cold water in my face to wake up. Then I dry myself with a scratchy brown paper towel.

Heading out of the boys’ room, I walk into a fleshy wall with a whistle in the middle. It’s Coach Keller, the only teacher who takes a leak alongside his students.

“Harris!” he says.

“Coach,” I answer, trying to squeeze past.

“What’s up, my man?”

“Not much,” I tell him.

“I was hoping to run into you. How are the legs doing?”

“Good, actually,” I admit, thinking about my run for the bell earlier.

Which was a stupid answer, because Keller is instantly all over me. “That’s great news!” he says, hands on his hips while he blocks the exit. “Really great news!”

“Thanks,” I answer, itching to get out of the dingy restroom.

“So—I suppose you heard,” he says.

From the look on his face, I’m half expecting to hear that someone died. “Heard what?” I ask.

“About us getting stomped last week,” he tells me gravely. “By Colchester. Colchester!”

Oh, brother, I think. “Oh well. Better luck next time.”

“We need more than luck, my friend,” he says. “We’re really slipping in the standings fast.”

“That sucks.”

“I know. But a win against Middlefield and we’re back on track. Or close, at least.”

“Middlefield?” I say, faking disgust for a high school I’ve never even heard of. “Don’t worry, Coach. We’ll cream them.”

I move to go. But no. Keller stops me with a hand so hot, I can feel it through my shirt.

“So wait—you’ll do it?”

“Do what?”

The coach looks at me and laughs. “Play some football! You must be dying to get back in. . . .”

“I don’t know, Coach,” I tell him. “I’m not sure if I’m ready.”

It’s an understatement. I can’t even throw a football to my own dog’s satisfaction, much less catch one.

“Look, I know what’s bothering you,” Keller says, sidling up to a urinal and unzipping himself. “You want to be QB. But look, let’s face it: it’s never gonna happen. You’re small and tough. That’s God’s own secret recipe for the perfect running back.”

I try to ignore the sound of the coach’s whizzing—man, how much does the guy drink? “Look, Coach, I’ll think about it,” I say. “But I’m not promising anything.”

“Okay, okay. But we need you, Cal. We need you.”

The bell rings. “I don’t know. Look, I gotta go, sir.”

Finally I’m able to get out of the washroom. I’m offended at the coach’s remark though. Small? That’s an overstatement. I don’t know. I suppose, compared to most football players, he’s right. Even Cole looked on the smaller side out there, come to think of it. Even while wearing pads and a helmet, I personally wouldn’t want to tangle with any of those other guys.

I should have just quit, then and there. But then the coach would have tried to change my mind, I’m sure, right there in the john. And that was a scene I wanted to avoid. No, I’ll quit later. I’ll quit when I’m good and ready.

I keep to myself for the rest of the day, blowing off anyone who tries to talk to me. For the most part, I’m successful. But at one point between fifth and sixth periods, Ivy Johansen sneaks up in the hall and sticks a finger down the waist of my jeans.

“Having a good day, sexy pants? Can’t wait for tonight.”

I turn red and jump away. She laughs and continues on with her friends.

After the last bell, I get out of the building as fast as I can. Head down, I race home, the pavement a blur under my feet. Crossing the bridge, I refuse to even look at the falls and try to ignore its thunderous drone.

When I come into the house, I’m pretty tired. But Jess is there in the entranceway, waiting.

“Hey there,” I say, looking into her wide brown eyes.

She whines: the signal she needs to pee. I feel glad she’s at least feeling comfortable enough to approach me now.

“Wanna go walkies?” I ask, hoping I’m wrong.

She starts wagging her tail in response. Tired or not, I can’t refuse her. I want my old dog back—the fun and affectionate one, not this timid creature that runs away from me.

“Okay, just let me get some water first.”

After guzzling down some liquid, I’m ready to go. Jess stands obediently as I put the leash on her. I open the front door, and she heads out urgently. She relieves herself on the nearest patch of grass.

“Hold on,” I tell her, once she is finished. “Sit.” Seeing the dog obey, I quickly run to the garage to get the mangled old football.

I open the door just enough to crawl inside. It’s dark in there, so I feel around for the light switch. The neon-strip bulbs sleepily come to life.

Looking up, I spot the scratched fiberglass underside of our old canoe. Which makes me suddenly curious.

I get the ladder and stand it up against a solid beam. Then I climb up and have a look inside the canoe. There, I find a life jacket half dangling over the side. This is probably the one I was wearing when they pulled me from the river, I’m guessing, which Dad then tossed back up rather than getting out the ladder. I pull it loose. It lands with a thud on the concrete floor.

Feeling around the cold inside of the canoe, I retrieve an old yellow children’s life jacket and then another one just like it. I drop them to the floor as well.

I then find something unexpected. Lodged under the paddles are two more life jackets. I pull them out. Two more orange ones.

I drop them and climb back down the ladder.

I stand there, looking at them in disbelief. There are five life jackets on the floor. Two small, yellow children’s jackets and three regular orange ones.

Three orange. All identical.

I know for sure we never had three. Why would we? It’s a two-person canoe—there was never any point. But now we have an extra one.

I remember once having to bring the orange life jackets to someone’s cottage and how my mother wrote our names inside them in marker so they wouldn’t get lost. I open one.
Cole
, it says on the inside breast. I open another:
Cal
.

Okay.

I open the last one—the first one I chucked down from the canoe, the one that had been hanging from the side.

Callum
, it says inside.

I fall off my feet, landing in a sitting position.
Cal
.
Callum
. How many of me
are
there in this family?

I hear a bark. With a jolt I remember that I’ve left Jess outside alone. With the busy road out front, it’s a dangerous thing to do, especially for this long. Abandoning the life jacket, I quickly grab the football and duck out from under the garage door. I scrape my back in the process and swear.

Jess barks again and comes hurtling over to me. “Good girl,” I tell her, relieved as she runs circles around me. I kiss her on her forehead. “Good girl.”

Thank God she stayed put, I think as we make our way down the drive. It was a stupid mistake; I couldn’t have lived with myself if she’d been hit by a car. Turning at the bottom of the path, I continue puzzling over the life jackets. There must be plenty of reasonable explanations. Maybe my life jacket was misplaced for a while, and they bought me another. Maybe my mother wrote Cal in the first one and then Callum in the new one.

Except I don’t remember that. Except I get a chill every time I think about the extra jacket. Because there’s something wrong. But what I keep thinking makes no sense.

It’s only when I see the fork in the road leading up to the campground that I start paying attention to where we’re going. We’ve gone the wrong way, back toward the campground.

I can’t be bothered turning around now. And why should I care? It’s a public road—Guise himself agreed. Besides, I’m through being afraid of people. It’s time to crack some more heads.

We head up the dirt road, Jess keeping pace right alongside me. She seems so different. I remember her always straining at the leash as soon as we were out, loving life and in a hurry to get on with it. But now she seems cautious, like a working dog that fears being beaten.

Well, we’re going to fix that, right this minute.

The field still isn’t mowed, so we’ll have to stick to the road. But with the campground pretty much deserted, I don’t expect much, if any, traffic coming along.

“Come on, girl,” I say, taking Jess off her leash. “Let’s play fetch!”

Confidence hums like an electric current through my whole body as I wind up. With a snap, I throw the ball. It’s the best spiral of my life, soaring high and straight above the road.

Jess can’t resist it: the sight of the brown bomb arcing across the clear, blue sky. She’s off, barking with joy at the chase.

“Go on, Jess! Go get it!”

The ball bounces only twice before the dog brings it down. Pleased with herself, she trots proudly in a circle before ravaging the kill. I laugh. Hearing me, she comes running back down the road and drops the slobbery thing at my feet.

“Good dog!” I praise her, scratching her behind both ears. “Good dog!”

It’s enough. I can see she loves me again, her friend, her master.

I snatch the ball from her. “What? Who’s got the ball? Who’s got the ball?” I ask in the baby talk I use whenever we are out of earshot of anyone else. I wind up but don’t throw a few times, teasing Jess, who begins barking in happy frustration before I finally let it rip. Again the ball sails through the air like a bullet. It feels easy now. Is that all I needed? Confidence?

Again, Jess is after it.

We keep this up for a while, having a blast together. Jess becomes more reluctant to hand the ball over, and I have to run after her, heading farther and farther down the road toward the park. But I don’t care. Other than the fact that my arm is beginning to ache, I don’t care about anything anymore.

“One more, girl, okay? Then we gotta head back.”

None of this is in Jess’s vocabulary, of course, especially when she is having fun. But despite my exhaustion, this last throw is among my most impressive, overshooting the mark I was aiming for. It bounces several times before Jess can catch up to it, ending up out of sight, over a ridge.